A/N: And again, not the last chapter. What can you do? Blame my muses.


Nine moons later Dis lets Thorin know that he may see Wren if he promises to behave. These are the exact words she uses, and she is giving him a stern look.

Wren is sitting in a cozy armchair in a parlour, it is full of books, little pots of herbs and myriads of some very feminine things he has no understanding of. The dress on her is velvet, of some demure warm colour, with soft mink fur on the collar. She looks well, better than he has ever seen her, her previously always pale cheeks are rosy, also perhaps from the slight unease that is splashing in her eyes. Her body, as much he can see, is the same, except for a round stomach, which she has protectively wrapped her arms around. Dis is sitting to the side, out of the hearing range, and is pretending to read a book.

There is a moment of silence between them, and he almost regrets coming here. For the last nine moons Dis has been announcing the same news at dinner every night. Wren is faring well, the babe is growing and healthy. They expect the parturiency to last sixteen moons. After a while, discomfort stops showing on Fili and Kili's faces upon these words, Wren becomes nothing but the vague memory, hidden, or hiding, somewhere in the halls, and everyone seems content with it. Thorin finds a constant mistress, she is a widow and is still mourning her husband in her heart, though the formal term of her bereavement has passed. She is also engaged in trade with Esgaroth and of immense help for him in some negotiations. She is often away, but they have enough nights to satisfy their hunger. Their relationships are amicable though detached, and Thorin thinks he has found the perfect solution.

Neither Thorin, nor Frerin have discussed what happened in Frerin's chambers. Frerin is not fond of mawkish palaver, Thorin finds it unnecessary. They are cold and polite towards each other, but sometimes Thorin thinks they should talk. He often thinks he is no longer young, wasting time in trite discord with his brother is foolish.

"Good evening, my lord." He has forgotten her voice, melodic, with a strange lilt to it, and suddenly something clenches in his chest. He is not used to the feeling, and he frowns. Her astute eyes are on his face, he remembers how perceptive she is, and he picks up from the table nearby the first object that is under his hand. It is a brush, and there is a single copper hair tangled in its bristles.

"How are you faring, my lady?" He does not like the sound of his own voice. He is also not looking at her.

"Quite well, thank you," laughter crawls into her voice, the old sarcastic shadow he is so familiar with. He looks at her askew. She has every right to mock him, he has asked to see her, and now he is fidgeting with her belongings. The look in her eyes is warm and soft, there is some new gentleness around her, and he sighs and sits on a settee near her armchair. He can see that she is aware of his discomfort and is graciously allowing him to gather his thoughts. It irks him more, and he folds his arms on his chest. This gesture only gains him a twitches of the corners of her red lips. "The healers think I am expecting a son."

He sees her hands splay on the round stomach, and she makes a firm round movement with her palms. He jerks his eyes up and looks into her face. He suddenly feels like running. He does not understand, he is a man, he is not used to the flurry of half distinguishable emotions in his head.

And then he thinks of children that appear in the Mountain more and more with each day, of boys running with wooden swords, girls following their parents to the market, and he chokes out, "How Dwarven is he to be?" His question is abrupt, and he wonders if he is wounding her by it. Her face remains calm, only her eyes change. He does not understand what it is he sees in them.

"It is hard to predict right now, my lord. I suppose I will find out next Spring," she looks down at her hands, and strokes the underside of her stomach, on her right side. Suddenly she scrunched her nose, as if in pain, and he is momentarily terrified, and then she giggles.

He is staring at her agape, and she notices his expression. Her lips twitch again, this time he is certain he is the target of her internal mockery. He remembers her sarcastic, dry sense of humour. A lot of memories seem to return now, for the first time in nine moons, now that they are speaking to each other.

"Do not fear, my lord, you will not have to deliver my son all alone on the floor of my parlour, he is just kicking," her voice is almost sing-song, but he cares little about her teasing. He suddenly understands it is a boy under her heart, and he has legs to kick.

They have a short and awkward, at least on his part, conversation about the latest news in Erebor, and then he excuses himself and leaves wishing her the best of health. Her eyes are sparkling with rather sharp mockery while he is hastily retreating, and he rushes out of the room. He felt he was obliged to visit her, and he felt he was acting decently and mercifully. Now he understands that she has no need in him, that he showed himself a blithering idiot, and now, instead of feeling self righteous and proud of his kindness he is muddled. She is no longer a faint memory of a terrified pallid girl, with her arms wrapped around her middle, announcing her parturition, and neither she is a feverish carnal fantasy he could not rid himself for nine moons. He just saw a capable woman, happy in her upcoming motherhood, who sees him as nothing but a nuisance.


Frerin misses Wren. Every night, unless he has had plenty of ale, he turns and shifts in his bed, not being able to find a comfortable spot, and even after nine moons he sometimes seeks her warmth under the covers, especially if half-asleep. He misses everything about her, returning to his chambers and seeing her at her desk, sharing meals with her, sharing bed with her. He has women occasionally, especially after a loud revel with a lot of mead and beer, but all he is left with in the morning is a bitter taste in his mouth and ache in his muscles.

He blames Thorin for his current misery, though he knows he is being unjust. It is easier this way, to repeat in his head that his brother took her away from him. Since the first day all those years ago when Frerin saw her in the market in Bree, she was laughing bantering with a vendour, choosing fabric for a new cloak, as she told him later that day when their bodies were cooling down after the fourth bout, or perhaps after the first week when he simply asked her if she wanted to travel together now, and she just nodded and smiled to him, ever since that time she has always been close, she was the constant, and Frerin ravelled in it. Frerin is not his brother, he lacks the will and perspective to raise a company to go on a quest and to reclaim a Kingdom, and Frerin is aware of it, but he has also always felt that the Dwarves of Erebor were deprived of their home. Wren was home for Frerin. For years her cool slender arms wrapped around him were the comfort and the shelter, and now Thorin took her away.

Frerin is a Dwarf, for him a child is sacred, but sometimes a thought that terrifies him and makes him disgusted with himself comes. If only the child were never to come, it could go back to what it was before. The child makes her Thorin's, at least by half, and that half is enough for her to never be his again. If there were no child, he could ask Wren to return, and this time Frerin would protect his home from invasion. He now understands he was a fool.


Dis lets Frerin know that he can visit Wren but she tells him that he cannot upset or worry Wren in any way. Frerin is immediately concerned that something is threatening Wren's health, and he solemnly nods.

He is stricken by how beautiful she is in her parturiency. He has always enjoyed her looks, he cares little how unattractive she is considered by Men and Dwarves alike, and everything he liked so much seems amplified now. Her lips are red, slanted amber coloured eyes are shining, and then he notices the extensive improvement in her chest area. He cannot tear his eyes off her cleavage, cleverly emphasized by a flirty fur collar, and she starts laughing loudly. He has missed her silver laugh.

"I finally have the bosom, the absence of which you have mourned for years, my friend," there is a new confidence to her tone, and he meets her laughing eyes.

"I have never mourned the absence of anything in you, ghivashel, though I cannot say any man in the same room with you now would argue that you should strive to be with child at all times. One can hardly look elsewhere," he falls back onto their usual light banter, it is surprisingly easy, and they smile to each other. He sits on a settee and looks her over. "You look well, Wren, I am glad bearing a half Dwarf does not exhaust you." She rubs the round stomach, and he remembers how strong and cool her narrow hands are.

"I am in excellent health, thank you. The healers say I am most likely carrying a son, it is a boy," her voice is soft and loving, she is addressing the life inside her, and Frerin suddenly understands that that is why he was invited to see her. He is being informed of the gender of the child. And that is all she needs from him. She is stroking the firm roundness, her features are soft and her eyes are almost dreamy, as if she is listening to something inside herself, and he understands none of it is ever to be for him again. He catches a childish thought in his mind, whether she even remembers he is in the room, and he feels irritated at himself.

They have a light and friendly conversation, and then he excuses himself and quickly retreats. She has a slightly confused expression on her face, as if she expected more from him, perhaps she thought he would want to touch the stomach, he saw husbands do it, but he needs to leave the room. He understands she is not to ever return.


Before her child is born, Thorin sees Wren one more time. He is looking for Dis, there are urgent news from Ered Luin, and he hastily walks into the backroom of the infirmary. His body clashes with someone, and the person makes a quiet gasp.

Thorin steps back and sees Wren. It has been another four moons since he came to visit her, her stomach is bigger but he notices that the rest of her body still looks the same.

She looks terrified, still breathless after their collision, and he stretches his hand to her to comfortingly touch her shoulder. She winces away from him, and he sees sheer animalistic terror in her eyes. And then he realises she is shaking, and her body is half turned from him, she is shielding her stomach. He assumes it is some sort of natural reaction from an expecting mother.

"It is alright, Wren, it is me," he hopes to soothe her agitation with soft tone, and then she lifts her eyes at him.

"Do not touch me," she breathes out, almost unconsciously, and he realises at that moment that it is the proximity to him that causes her state, and he thinks he can almost see hatred and disgust splashing in her irises. She is pale and takes a small step away from him. He has no words, his throat is choked, and then she hastily leaves the room.


Wren's son is born on a surprisingly hot, mid-May day, they both are healthy and the delivery goes without complications. The boy is large and heavy, almost black curls are already thick and long, and she and Dis are laughing at how they are sticking out after they are washed for the first time. He has bright blue eyes, but both women know that the colour will probably change in a moon. Midwives and Dis spend a lot of time in her rooms, years of friendship bond the women, and everyone wants to see the boy. He looks completely Dwarven and very, very irked. He is frowning and looks so grumpy even in his sleep that women cannot stop chuckling. He is also very beautiful, the features are very noble, and although none of the women speak of it, there is blood of the Kings running in his veins.


Three moons after the boy is born, it is time to choose a name for him. Thorin is invited to see the new mother and the child. When he comes, Frerin is sitting on a chair near Wren's bed, she is still advised to stay in bed most of the time, according to Dis, as brave and strong as she has been through the delivery, it took a great toll out of her body. The boy is lying on the sheets between them, and Frerin is shaking some bright toy above the child. The small plump arms flail, and Wren is laughing.

Midwives and lore keepers come, it is time to write the child into the Erebor register, and while the scribe is writing in a large volume, Thorin can see the line of fatherhood is left empty. He comes up to the bed. Wren gives him a tight smile, and he is looking at the babe. It is beautiful, strong and healthy, the black curls are scattered on the blanket, and suddenly the eyes open, and Thorin meets the irises that are so much like his.

"What is the name of the child, my lady?" The scribe asks politely in Khuzdul. And Wren throws a look at Dis.

"Othin," the princess says, and something pushes Throin to step closer to Wren.

He leans in, and her eyes meet his. He has forgotten the long lashes and the freckled nose. Her skin suddenly looks radiant to him, and he cannot stop looking. Her eyes are cautious, and he pushes himself to speak.

"If you would be so kind and generous, I would ask for the honour of your son bearing the name of Thror." He hears Dis gasp loudly behind him, she never loses her composure thusly, she did not even cry on her husband's funeral. Wren's lips are shaking, and he can see her throat move spasmodically. And then she nods.

"Thror, son of..." The scribe takes a pause and looks at Wren. Thorin notices how much her hands are shaking on the bed.

"Son of Frerin," Frerin's voice is low and there is menace in it. He has moved to the wall and is standing his arms crossed on his chest. There is silence in the room after that, only the sound of quill scraping at the parchment can be heard, and Thorin is looking at Wren. She is pale, and her hand twitches on the covers. He wonders if he should pick it up, but Dis leans in and wraps her arm around Wren's shoulders. The child wakes up and makes a funny irritated noise. Everyone is ushered out of the room, it is apparently feeding time.